David Duffy - Last to Fold

“Just my luck—a socialist with scruples. I’ll ask again—what do you want with Risly?”

“I think this is where I came in.”

“I can make life difficult.”

“You mentioned that earlier. First thing you said. Kind of got us off on the wrong foot. I’ll take my chances on whether the different agencies in the federal government have actually started talking to each other.”

“You really do think you’re clever, don’t you? Is Mulholland your client?”

“Suppose I gave you my word that whatever my business, as you put it, with Mulholland, it has nothing to do with predatory lending or anything else at FirstTrustBank.”

She doodled on her notepad while she considered that. “Don’t take offense, but what’s the word of a socialist spook worth?” she asked with a smile.

“Former socialist spook. Now I’m just another small businessman, backbone of the American economy.”

“Don’t give yourself airs. What about Barsukov and Risly?”

“Straight up—I have no business with Barsukov. He and I had a falling-out back in the eighties. Big one. Yesterday was the first time I’d seen him in more than twenty years. I hope it’s the last. He does, too.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me.”

“How sick is he?”

“I’m not an oncologist, but he’s my age and used to be my size and weight. He looks like he’s eighty and weighs one-twenty. He’s got cancer and he’s still chain-smoking. I wouldn’t bet on him being around this time next year. On the other hand, I was recently reminded of a saying we have. He who’s destined to hang won’t drown.”

“Not before I nail his ass. And Risly?”

I shook my head with a grin. “I’ll tell you this. I very much doubt that my business with Risly, again as you put it, has anything to do with whatever you’re interested in.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was trying a very stupid shakedown. It didn’t work.”

“What kind of shakedown?”

“Amateur effort. Not even worth talking about.”

“That’s your opinion.”

I shrugged.

“Who was he shaking, Mulholland?”

I shrugged again.

“Somebody phished Mulholland.”

“Yeah, I understand Ratko’s got quite a rep in those circles. I don’t know anything about that.”

“Your word as an ex-socialist spook turned law-abiding small businessman?”

“That’s right.”

“The phisher used a forged letter from my office. That pisses me off. I also infer the phisher knows more about my business than he should. Bernie tells me you know your way around technology crime.”

“I met Mulholland for the first time Tuesday morning. I’d hardly heard of him before then. My word as an ex-socialist spook.”

She made another note. No jade flash this time.

“All right, Mr. Vlost. Thanks for your time. If you learn anything about Risly, I’d like to know.”

“You’re counting on a lot of ex-socialist goodwill.”

“Very funny. Bernie said you could be a real pain in the ass.”

“I’m really very friendly and engaging. Let me buy you dinner.”

The green eyes gave me an I-can’t-believe-you-just-said-that look over the top of the glasses.

“I think we’ll get along better on a strictly business basis.”

“That’s been a real treat so far.”

One more flash. Sooner or later I was bound to get burned, if I got the chance. She closed the file in front of her and stood.

“Good day, Mr. Vlost. If you ask him, Bernie will tell you I can be a pain in the ass, too. He’ll also confirm my reputation for periodically crushing neighboring anatomical appendages. Maybe everything you say is true and this has all been one big coincidence. If so, nice meeting you. But feminine intuition and the statistics course I took back in college say bull to that.”

“Sometimes, an inside straight fills.”

“Maybe. Whatever you’re up to, y’all’d be well advised to stay the hell out of my way. If I find out you are fuckin’ around in my cases—or if you’ve been less than one hundred percent straight—I’ll make sure you do time in a good old American jail for obstruction, and that’s before I get your ass deported. Do I make myself clear?”

The twang was back. She worked hard to cover it, but it came out when she got angry. I found it charming. I was finding everything about her charming.

Before I could say more than “Very clear,” a clock chimed 9:00 and the end of the first round. Coyle and Sawicki were nowhere to be seen as I showed myself out of the building. A young man in a white linen suit with black curly hair and an eye patch gave me a quick once-over as I passed through the reception area. He didn’t look American, more European, and could’ve been Russian. I almost spoke to him, to test my hypothesis, but prudence knocked on my skull and said I’d already used up the day’s quota of luck.

The heat sucked the energy off the street. Traffic—vehicular and pedestrian—moved a beat slow, and the mood was morose. BEARS RULE—DOW DROPS 610, the Post cried from a newsstand. I’d lost track of the market gyrations. Maybe I could train Pig Pen to broaden his horizons and provide updates on the Dow Jones.

No cabs in sight. I walked slowly back downtown, replaying the conversation with Victoria as I went. Coyle seeing me at Mulholland’s was a coincidence—or bad luck, depending on your point of view—but she had people watching Barsukov’s palace and Ratko’s building. She didn’t know about Greene Street, at least not yet. Lucky for me, or I wouldn’t be walking around. Why did she bring me in to show her hand? Maybe Bernie’s word was good enough for her. More likely, she didn’t have much, so she was reaching for something.

I stopped at the deli and ordered black coffee and a toasted bagel, one half with butter and jam. I chewed that on the way to the office.

“Hello, Russky,” Pig Pen said, his eyes fixed on the brown paper bag. “Pizza?” A mix of eternal hope and here-and-now resignation in his voice.

“Good morning, Pig Pen. Bagel,” I said, removing his half.

“Cream cheese?”

“No cream cheese for parrots.”

“Cream cheese?” he tried again, but he saw the fix was in.

“Cream cheese means cholesterol, and cholesterol makes Pig Pen an ex-parrot.” I have no idea how a parrot’s cardiovascular system works, but it seemed a reasonable assumption. Besides, Pig Pen thinks he’s human like the rest of us.

“Python,” he said, his head bobbing up and down. He’s a fan of the dead parrot skit, along with everyone else, even if his ancestry is the butt of the joke. I handed over the bagel. He pulled off a piece.

“Onion!” Things were looking up.

“Happy now?”

“Muchas gracias…”

“You’re welcome.”

“…cheapskate.”

The neck feathers ruffled. Maybe I’m mistaken, and twelve is still adolescence in parrot years.

“Where’s the boss?”

“Pancakes.” Breakfast.

“Pig Pen, what do you know about Wall Street?”

“BQE?”

“No, not traffic. Stock market. Dow Jones. NASDAQ.”

“Cross Bronx. Accident cleared.”

“Is your life’s ambition to be a cab driver?”

“Triborough—two lanes closed.”

He went back to the bagel. Morning rush hour was the wrong time for this conversation.

“Tell Foos I said thanks for the hard drive.”

“Drive-by.”

“Not drive-by, hard drive. Computer.”

He nodded as he chewed, but I think he was just pacifying me.

Bernie’s secretary confirmed he was in the office. I got the hundred grand from the safe and walked down to Hayes & Franklin. Shirt wrinkled and tie loosened, he was bent over a thick stack of papers. He barely looked up when I dropped the bag on his desk.